


shadows

by moreworldliness



Category: DreamSMP (Minecraft Series)
Genre: (literally Ghostbur is Wilbur's ghost what are you expecting), Canonical Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memories, Non-Canonical Conversation, Platonic Relationships, Repairing Relationships, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28216716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreworldliness/pseuds/moreworldliness
Summary: Ghostbur and Phil sit by a lake, though only one shadow stretches out far behind them.or:Ghostbur is an adorable amnesiac and Phil's burdened with the past.
Relationships: Wilbur | Ghostbur Soot & Philza
Kudos: 30





	shadows

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe there's no DreamSMP tag yet? y'all sleeping on this smh  
> note: these interactions are between the characters, and are non-canonical; not between the real-life people. that's weird.

A quiet din rested over the lake, teal waters taking in the tune of cicadas and fluttering wings of hummingbirds as nothing more than a ripple against its shatterable surface, far more interested in the sun’s magnificent dance; filtered for the fish’s eyes as they scattered at the movement along the dockside. The wood creaked, splinters following two pairs of feet, though only one cared much about the pain that could come from a stray bit of horrendously brittle, sundried oak. Relentless, the sun continued her dance, a coldbox pressed to the side of one body as he sat down, followed by a noiseless hit of a second.

Sweat sparkled under the brim of his father’s striped bucket hat, a soft sigh barely audible over the chattering conversations of nearby bugs and flowing water. A pair of ethereal feet dipped into the water, a shiver running over translucent skin as the fragile glass was barely disturbed. A fish went to nibble at his shadowless feet and found it rather confusing. It continued swimming there, his father’s laughter catching the wind with far more grace than his sigh.

“I completely underestimated how hot it’d be today.”

Wilbur rose his head from the inquisitive gaze he gave the fish, blue reflecting in the whites of his eyes - though it wasn’t as if there was a pupil there to compliment them - as a smile adorned his worn-out face. The yellow of his sweater rivaled the sun, the red of his beanie a sky at sunset, and Philza still wasn’t used to the fact that his twilight-dipped son didn’t need to wear weather appropriate clothing.

“I thought it’d be cold today - Techno said that it’d be cold.”

“It’s always cold where Techno is; he literally lives in a tundra.”

“He doesn’t live that far away!”

“It’s a five-hour walk, Wil!”

Laughter decorated the cloudless sky above them with faint glimmers of stars, waiting for their turn to dance with the moon; the sun was overbearing in her gaze, but neither of the two souls sat on the dock seemed to care. Wilbur’s eyes followed the long, stretching shadow that peeled off of Philza’s back, meeting its gaze from halfway down the bridge. He turned, startled, and watched the fish; watched Philza’s feet meet the water, and disturb the peace of the mirrored surface.

Philza watched his son; watched the husk shift uncomfortably at the revelation of shadows and light that bounced around without a care in his body, watched the sunlit eyes ask for darkness for a moment - just a moment - before that carefree smile returned to his pale face, marred with doubt and worry.

Far away from the prying eyes of history and memory, Philza had taken them here to rest, yet still, there was no running from inevitable conversation. Three hours of solace, but in the end, there was a reason for this trip. Phil wished he was a better parent to say that Wilbur didn’t know the same to be true already.

“Wilbur--”

“Ghostbur.”

“Right. Ghostbur … you don’t like being in light’s path, do you?”

Wilbur’s hair fell in his face from under his beanie, a confused smile taking the place of the easy farce that usually decorated him. Blue dye coated his hands, though fell through into smog, trapped within a thin membrane of reality that held him together - his quiet sadness died with loud exhibition that still Wilbur denied.

Life had been cruel.

Phil knew that in some ways, he had been crueler, sheltering his boys in the way that he did.

“Light? I like the light - I like the sun, and the wind and the reflections! I like the birds, and the days you can spend with the people you love.”

No, crueler still, Phil knew he was responsible for this - the cloud that smothered Wilbur’s mind, saving him from the erroneous pain that drove its hold deeper into his son’s very soul with each passing moment. Cruel, but true, his efforts to save his son had been all in vain. He’d been too late - he’d watched as his son obliterated himself, and asked him to do away with his body to finish his final work of art.

Somewhere, in the safe cloud that Wilbur had created for himself -  _ “I only remember the good things!” _ He’d said, like that’d make his case better, knowing full well he remembered very little - Phil knew his little boy resided. Dreaming of heroism, and bravery, dreaming of all the things that came with being his own leader, dreaming of touching the moon and having the universe ruffle his hair in a pleasant welcome into his place among the history books.

If that’s what Wilbur had wanted, perhaps he’d gotten it.

What use was it if he couldn’t remember?

“That’s not what I mean, Ghostbur. You don’t like looking at other people in the light, do you?”

There were some moments where Phil saw his boy. The man that started a nation all on his own, with friends to hand and a song in his heart; some memories flooded back to Wilbur in an instant, and Phil saw those same songs fill the empty pages of his head with a ballad that he wanted so desperately to finish for him.

And some days, on beautiful arid days like today, the sun and wind stole his son away with their guiding arms and drew him into a beautiful daze. Wound him up, in the guilt and the pain, and told him to bid farewell to all of it. Offered him a sanctuary from which to hide away from all of it, with his memory as the entrance fee. He watched, horrified but not surprised, at the innocence and hurt that swept over his son’s mind because he simply did not understand. Phil knew he would, in due time: He had to.

There were some moments where he saw it all in Wilbur’s eyes again - the sickening glare of explosions as his son searched his shadow for what he’d seen back then, for the slightest hint at what was unnerving him. Search for the words, inside of the horror that he’d felt, the betrayal that laced his gut, the screams ringing in his ears, and draw a blank as he found the source of the shadow again.

Locking eyes with Phil, he watched as the fear washed away, bound and guided by the man that’d stopped his mad tirade, and calmed his broken mind with eternal sleep.  _ “Don’t worry, dad! It’s a good memory! I remember.” _ He’d said, like that did anything more than darken the blood that refused to untint Phil’s sword.

“I don’t like shadows, that’s all. Beady .. button-eyed creatures. I don’t like looking at them too hard, Phil.

Sometimes, they blink.”

Books - yes, Wilbur wrote a lot of books. He always had, since he was a small child - stories and plays, the likes of which the world had never seen, featuring his older and younger brothers as the world-famous actors on a stage of leaves and trees. The sun, ever-present, watching from her foot among the stars, and Phil’s wings outstretched to keep them shaded from her malevolent eye. Then, when all was said and done, they’d sleep by his side for hours at a time, waiting for the sun to set and food to be made.

Little hands had latched his wings to Earth and grounded him, and he’d accepted his role in Wilbur’s grand symphony: a rock. The single most important thing inside of any of his son’s lives, calm and there, ready, waiting, whenever they needed him.

Rocks were never meant to move. And yet, when they needed him the most, Phil found that he’d never been further away.

Phil wondered what Wilbur saw inside of his shadow; the man that had held Wilbur’s shoulder, staring out at the broken mess of a country that he’d detonated, a grin on his son’s face? The man that had raised him as a small boy, held him close during storms and filled his mind with stories and myths and legends? The man that had never been there when Wilbur needed him the most?

The man that had driven a sword through Wilbur’s midsection, and sobbed over his son’s still warm body, like it’d do anything more than imbue the surrounding walls with sadness?

Phil rested a hand against Wilbur’s cold shoulder, gathering himself up with the warmth that he drew from the yellow that seemed to breathe a little life into Wilbur’s very dead cheeks. There was no use residing in the past, but when the past was undead, walking about like nothing was wrong, it was more than difficult.

“Then let’s sit in the shade. You’d be fine with that, right?”

Wilbur’s smile was burnt into Phil’s brain forever. A smile that had sacrificed everything for everyone around him, and for himself - the smile that had sent himself over the edge, bore into walls that screamed their melancholy memories down the corridors of a long-forgotten ravine. The smile that greeted him now, free of fear and of pain, though artificial.

But it was okay.

As long as his son was smiling, it didn’t matter the reason.

Reason would come, as it always did following faith. He’d heard a story long ago about that, and the stories didn’t lie - just sang little half-truths that enraptured the senses and spun fabrications into the fabric that held you together. Perhaps reason really did always follow; perhaps it was a sore excuse for still not understanding why things ended this way.

How could he help Wilbur if he didn’t understand?

How could he help himself if he didn’t understand?

Was this Wilbur still his son?

A small grip on his shirt reassured him as such, Wilbur’s hair falling further in the way of his face as he nodded, radiant and burning with the innocent amnesia of youth. His failures and faults, the nightmares that his son had endured, all melted away under the gently rocking ship called Today, sinking into a cool night breeze not far on the horizon. It was all so busy, accepting that everything mattered, so maybe they didn’t need a reason right now.

It’d be okay.

Phil had told himself that all his life.

“That sounds nice!”

“Alright then. Let’s find a nice tree to sit under.”


End file.
